The rain hits the tin roof. It sounds like static. You sit in the chair. Your hands are still. They do not shake. You have learned to keep them still. The room is small. The air is thick. It smells of wet wool and old paper. The window is narrow. It looks out on the yard. The grass is brown. The fence is broken. You wait.

The clock ticks. It is a heavy sound. It fills the room. You are alone. You are not alone. The walls are listening. The shadows are watching. You know this. You have always known. The badge is on the desk. It is cold. It is iron. It does not warm you. It only weighs you down.

A knock at the door. It is soft. It is polite. You do not move. The knocking comes again. It is firm. You stand up. Your knees crack. You are old. You are tired. You walk to the door. You open it.

A man stands there. He is young. He wears a coat. The coat is dark. It is soaked. He holds a lantern. The light is yellow. It cuts through the rain. He looks at you. His eyes are wet. His face is pale.

"Mr. Hale," he says. His voice is low. It is rough. "We need to talk."

You do not speak. You step aside. You let him in. He steps into the room. He looks around. He sees the chair. He sees the desk. He sees the badge. He looks at you. He sees your face. He sees your eyes.

"Sit down," you say. Your voice is dry. It is like dust. "Sit down."

He sits. He puts the lantern on the desk. The light flickers. The shadows move. He takes off his hat. He wipes his hair. He looks at the floor.

"I have a letter," he says. He reaches into his coat. He takes out a piece of paper. It is folded. It is wet. He hands it to you. You take it. You unfold it. The paper is thin. The ink is black. The words are clear.

You read the letter. You read it once. You read it again. Your hands do not shake. Your face does not change. You fold the letter. You put it in your pocket. You look at the man.

"Who wrote this?" you ask.

"I do not know," he says. "It was found."

"Found where?"

"In the river," he says. "Near the mill."

You nod. You do not believe him. You do not need to believe him. The truth is not in the letter. The truth is in the water. The truth is in the mud. The truth is in the blood.

"Why are you here?" you ask.

"To tell you," he says. "To warn you."

"Warn me of what?"

"Of the end," he says. "Of the judgment."

You laugh. It is a dry sound. It is like a cough. The man looks at you. He is confused. He is afraid.

"There is no judgment," you say. "There is only duty."

"You did not have a duty," he says. "You made a mistake."

You look at him. You look into his eyes. You see fear in them. You see hate in them. You see hope in them. You know why he is here. He is not here to help you. He is here to punish you. He is here to save himself.

"Who sent you?" you ask.

"No one," he says. "I am alone."

You stand up. You walk to the window. You look out. The rain is still falling. The yard is dark. The fence is broken. The grass is dead.

"You are a liar," you say. "You are not alone."

He looks at you. He does not deny it. He knows you are right. He knows who is behind him. He knows what they want.

"They want you dead," he says. "They want the badge."

"I have given the badge," you say. "It is on the desk."

"That is not enough," he says. "They want you gone."

You turn to him. You look at him. You see the gun in his hand. It is small. It is black. It is quiet.

"You will not shoot me," you say.

He looks at the gun. He looks at you. His hand is shaking. He cannot stop it.

"I have to," he says. "I have to do it."

"No," you say. "You do not have to do it."

He raises the gun. His arm is stiff. His face is pale. He is crying. He is afraid. He is broken.

"Please," he says. "I have a family."

You do not move. You do not plead. You do not beg. You look at him. You see his pain. You see his fear. You see his mistake.

"You are not the enemy," you say. "You are the victim."

He lowers the gun. His hand trembles. The light flickers. The shadows move. The room is silent. The clock ticks.

"Why?" he asks. "Why did you do it?"

You do not answer. You look at the desk. You look at the badge. You think of the night. You think of the fire. You think of the child. You think of the choice.

"I did not do it for glory," you say. "I did it for silence."

He does not understand. He wants to understand. He wants to hate you. He wants to kill you. He cannot.

"Go," you say. "Go away."

He stands up. He picks up his hat. He picks up the lantern. He looks at you. He sees your face. He sees your eyes.

"I am sorry," he says.

You do not answer. You look at the door. You wait. He walks to the door. He opens it. The rain comes in. The cold comes in. He steps out. He closes the door. The lock clicks.

You are alone. You are not alone. The walls are listening. The shadows are watching. You walk to the chair. You sit down. Your hands are still. They do not shake.

The clock ticks. It is a heavy sound. It fills the room. The rain hits the tin roof. It sounds like static.

You think of the river. The water is cold. The water is dark. The water remembers. The water keeps. The water does not forgive. The water does not forget.

You think of the mill. The gears are rusted. The gears are broken. The gears are still. The smoke is gone. The fire is gone. The heat is gone.

You think of the child. The child is gone. The child is dead. The child is lost. The child is gone.

You look at your hands. They are old. They are rough. They are clean. They are empty.

You reach into your pocket. You take out the letter. You unfold it. You read it again. The words are clear. The ink is black. The paper is thin.

You see the name. It is your name. It is not your name. It is the name of the man who wrote it. It is the name of the man who sent it. It is the name of the man who is coming.

You fold the letter. You put it in your pocket. You stand up. You walk to the desk. You pick up the badge. It is cold. It is iron. It is heavy.

You look out the window. The rain is stopping. The clouds are moving. The moon is coming. The light is silver. The light is cold.

You see a figure in the yard. It is standing by the fence. It is still. It is waiting. It is you. It is not you. It is the man who died. It is the man who lived. It is the man who is coming.

You do not move. You do not run. You do not hide. You are here. You are ready. You are tired. You are old. You are done.

The figure moves. It walks to the door. It knocks. It is soft. It is polite. You do not move. The knocking comes again. It is firm. You stand up. Your knees crack. You are old. You are tired. You walk to the door. You open it.

The man stands there. He is not young. He is not old. He is you. He is the man you were. He is the man you will be. He holds a lantern. The light is yellow. It cuts through the rain. He looks at you. His eyes are wet. His face is pale.

"Mr. Hale," he says. His voice is low. It is rough. "We need to talk."

You do not speak. You step aside. You let him in. He steps into the room. He looks around. He sees the chair. He sees the desk. He sees the badge. He looks at you. He sees your face. He sees your eyes.

"Sit down," you say. Your voice is dry. It is like dust. "Sit down."

He sits. He puts the lantern on the desk. The light flickers. The shadows move. He takes off his hat. He wipes his hair. He looks at the floor.

"I have a letter," he says. He reaches into his coat. He takes out a piece of paper. It is folded. It is wet. He hands it to you. You take it. You unfold it. The paper is thin. The ink is black. The words are clear.

You read the letter. You read it once. You read it again. Your hands do not shake. Your face does not change. You fold the letter. You put it in your pocket. You look at the man.

"Who wrote this?" you ask.

"I do not know," he says. "It was found."

"Found where?"

"In the river," he says. "Near the mill."

You nod. You do not believe him. You do not need to believe him. The truth is not in the letter. The truth is in the water. The truth is in the mud. The truth is in the blood.

"Why are you here?" you ask.

"To tell you," he says. "To warn you."

"Warn me of what?"

"Of the end," he says. "Of the judgment."

You laugh. It is a dry sound. It is like a cough. The man looks at you. He is confused. He is afraid.

"There is no judgment," you say. "There is only duty."

"You did not have a duty," he says. "You made a mistake."

You look at him. You look into his eyes. You see fear in them. You see hate in them. You see hope in them. You know why he is here. He is not here to help you. He is here to punish you. He is here to save himself.

"Who sent you?" you ask.

"No one," he says. "I am alone."

You stand up. You walk to the window. You look out. The rain is still falling. The yard is dark. The fence is broken. The grass is dead.

"You are a liar," you say. "You are not alone."

He looks at you. He does not deny it. He knows you are right. He knows who is behind him. He knows what they want.

"They want you dead," he says. "They want the badge."

"I have given the badge," you say. "It is on the desk."

"That is not enough," he says. "They want you gone."

You turn to him. You look at him. You see the gun in his hand. It is small. It is black. It is quiet.

"You will not shoot me," you say.

He looks at the gun. He looks at you. His hand is shaking. He cannot stop it.

"I have to," he says. "I have to do it."

"No," you say. "You do not have to do it."

He raises the gun. His arm is stiff. His face is pale. He is crying. He is afraid. He is broken.

"Please," he says. "I have a family."

You do not move. You do not plead. You do not beg. You look at him. You see his pain. You see his fear. You see his mistake.

"You are not the enemy," you say. "You are the victim."

He lowers the gun. His hand trembles. The light flickers. The shadows move. The room is silent. The clock ticks.

"Why?" he asks. "Why did you do it?"

You do not answer. You look at the desk. You look at the badge. You think of the night. You think of the fire. You think of the child. You think of the choice.

"I did not do it for glory," you say. "I did it for silence."

He does not understand. He wants to understand. He wants to hate you. He wants to kill you. He cannot.

"Go," you say. "Go away."

He stands up. He picks up his hat. He picks up the lantern. He looks at you. He sees your face. He sees your eyes.

"I am sorry," he says.

You do not answer. You look at the door. You wait. He walks to the door. He opens it. The rain comes in. The cold comes in. He steps out. He closes the door. The lock clicks.

You are alone. You are not alone. The walls are listening. The shadows are watching. You walk to the chair. You sit down. Your hands are still. They do not shake.

The clock ticks. It is a heavy sound. It fills the room. The rain hits the tin roof. It sounds like static.

You think of the river. The water is cold. The water is dark. The water remembers. The water keeps. The water does not forgive. The water does not forget.

You think of the mill. The gears are rusted. The gears are broken. The gears are still. The smoke is gone. The fire is gone. The heat is gone.

You think of the child. The child is gone. The child is dead. The child is lost. The child is gone.

You look at your hands. They are old. They are rough. They are clean. They are empty.

You reach into your pocket. You take out the letter. You unfold it. You read it again. The words are clear. The ink is black. The paper is thin.

You see the name. It is your name. It is not your name. It is the name of the man who wrote it. It is the name of the man who sent it. It is the name of the man who is coming.

You fold the letter. You put it in your pocket. You stand up. You walk to the desk. You pick up the badge. It is cold. It is iron. It is heavy.

You look out the window. The rain is stopping. The clouds are moving. The moon is coming. The light is silver. The light is cold.

You see a figure in the yard. It is standing by the fence. It is still. It is waiting. It is you. It is not you. It is the man who died. It is the man who lived. It is the man who is coming.

You do not move. You do not run. You do not hide. You are here. You are ready. You are tired. You are old. You are done.

The figure moves. It walks to the door. It knocks. It is soft. It is polite. You do not move. The knocking comes again. It is firm. You stand up. Your knees crack. You are old. You are tired. You walk to the door. You open it.

The man stands there. He is not young. He is not old. He is you. He is the man you were. He is the man you will be. He holds a lantern. The light is yellow. It cuts through the rain. He looks at you. His eyes are wet. His face is pale.

"Mr. Hale," he says. His voice is low. It is rough. "We need to talk."

You do not speak. You step aside. You let him in. He steps into the room. He looks around. He sees the chair. He sees the desk. He sees the badge. He looks at you. He sees your face. He sees your eyes.

"Sit down," you say. Your voice is dry. It is like dust. "Sit down."

He sits. He puts the lantern on the desk. The light flickers. The shadows move. He takes off his hat. He wipes his hair. He looks at the floor.

"I have a letter," he says. He reaches into his coat. He takes out a piece of paper. It is folded. It is wet. He hands it to you. You take it. You unfold it. The paper is thin. The ink is black. The words are clear.

You read the letter. You read it once. You read it again. Your hands do not shake. Your face does not change. You fold the letter. You put it in your pocket. You look at the man.

"Who wrote this?" you ask.

"I do not know," he says. "It was found."

"Found where?"

"In the river," he says. "Near the mill."

You nod. You do not believe him. You do not need to believe him. The truth is not in the letter. The truth is in the water. The truth is in the mud. The truth is in the blood.

"Why are you here?" you ask.

"To tell you," he says. "To warn you."

"Warn me of what?"

"Of the end," he says. "Of the judgment."

You laugh. It is a dry sound. It is like a cough. The man looks at you. He is confused. He is afraid.

"There is no judgment," you say. "There is only duty."

"You did not have a duty," he says. "You made a mistake."

You look at him. You look into his eyes. You see fear in them. You see hate in them. You see hope in them. You know why he is here. He is not here to help you. He is here to punish you. He is here to save himself.

"Who sent you?" you ask.

"No one," he says. "I am alone."

You stand up. You walk to the window. You look out. The rain is still falling. The yard is dark. The fence is broken. The grass is dead.

"You are a liar," you say. "You are not alone."

He looks at you. He does not deny it. He knows you are right. He knows who is behind him. He knows what they want.

"They want you dead," he says. "They want the badge."

"I have given the badge," you say. "It is on the desk."

"That is not enough," he says. "They want you gone."

You turn to him. You look at him. You see the gun in his hand. It is small. It is black. It is quiet.

"You will not shoot me," you say.

He looks at the gun. He looks at you. His hand is shaking. He cannot stop it.

"I have to," he says. "I have to do it."

"No," you say. "You do not have to do it."

He raises the gun. His arm is stiff. His face is pale. He is crying. He is afraid. He is broken.

"Please," he says. "I have a family."

You do not move. You do not plead. You do not beg. You look at him. You see his pain. You see his fear. You see his mistake.

"You are not the enemy," you say. "You are the victim."

He lowers the gun. His hand trembles. The light flickers. The shadows move. The room is silent. The clock ticks.

"Why?" he asks. "Why did you do it?"

You do not answer. You look at the desk. You look at the badge. You think of the night. You think of the fire. You think of the child. You think of the choice.

"I did not do it for glory," you say. "I did it for silence."

He does not understand. He wants to understand. He wants to hate you. He wants to kill you. He cannot.

"Go," you say. "Go away."

He stands up. He picks up his hat. He picks up the lantern. He looks at you. He sees your face. He sees your eyes.

"I am sorry," he says.

You do not answer. You look at the door. You wait. He walks to the door. He opens it. The rain comes in. The cold comes in. He steps out. He closes the door. The lock clicks.

You are alone. You are not alone. The walls are listening. The shadows are watching. You walk to the chair. You sit down. Your hands are still. They do not shake.

The clock ticks. It is a heavy sound. It fills the room. The rain hits the tin roof. It sounds like static.

You think of the river. The water is cold. The water is dark. The water remembers. The water keeps. The water does not forgive. The water does not forget.

You think of the mill. The gears are rusted. The gears are broken. The gears are still. The smoke is gone. The fire is gone. The heat is gone.

You think of the child. The child is gone. The child is dead. The child is lost. The child is gone.

You look at your hands. They are old. They are rough. They are clean. They are empty.

You reach into your pocket. You take out the letter. You unfold it. You read it again. The words are clear. The ink is black. The paper is thin.

You see the name. It is your name. It is not your name. It is the name of the man who wrote it. It is the name of the man who sent it. It is the name of the man who is coming.

You fold the letter. You put it in your pocket. You stand up. You walk to the desk. You pick up the badge. It is cold. It is iron. It is heavy.

You look out the window. The rain is stopping. The clouds are moving. The moon is coming. The light is silver. The light is cold.

You see a figure in the yard. It is standing by the fence. It is still. It is waiting. It is you. It is not you. It is the man who died. It is the man who lived. It is the man who is coming.

You do not move. You do not run. You do not hide. You are here. You are ready. You are tired. You are old. You are done.

The figure moves. It walks to the door. It knocks. It is soft. It is polite. You do not move. The knocking comes again. It is firm. You stand up. Your knees crack. You are old. You are tired. You walk to the door. You open it.

The man stands there. He is not young. He is not old. He is you. He is the man you were. He is the man you will be. He holds a lantern. The light is yellow. It cuts through the rain. He looks at you. His eyes are wet. His face is pale.

"Mr. Hale," he says. His voice is low. It is rough. "We need to talk."

You do not speak. You step aside. You let him in. He steps into the room. He looks around. He sees the chair. He sees the desk. He sees the badge. He looks at you. He sees your face. He sees your eyes.

"Sit down," you say. Your voice is dry. It is like dust. "Sit down."

He sits. He puts the lantern on the desk. The light flickers. The shadows move. He takes off his hat. He wipes his hair. He looks at the floor.

"I have a letter," he says. He reaches into his coat. He takes out a piece of paper. It is folded. It is wet. He hands it to you. You take it. You unfold it. The paper is thin. The ink is black. The words are clear.

You read the letter. You read it once. You read it again. Your hands do not shake. Your face does not change. You fold the letter. You put it in your pocket. You look at the man.

"Who wrote this?" you ask.

"I do not know," he says. "It was found."

"Found where?"

"In the river," he says. "Near the mill."

You nod. You do not believe him. You do not need to believe him. The truth is not in the letter. The truth is in the water. The truth is in the mud. The truth is in the blood.

"Why are you here?" you ask.

"To tell you," he says. "To warn you."

"Warn me of what?"

"Of the end," he says. "Of the judgment."

You laugh. It is a dry sound. It is like a cough. The man looks at you. He is confused. He is afraid.

"There is no judgment," you say. "There is only duty."

"You did not have a duty," he says. "You made a mistake."

You look at him. You look into his eyes. You see fear in them. You see hate in them. You see hope in them. You know why he is here. He is not here to help you. He is here to punish you. He is here to save himself.

"Who sent you?" you ask.

"No one," he says. "I am alone."

You stand up. You walk to the window. You look out. The rain is still falling. The yard is dark. The fence is broken. The grass is dead.

"You are a liar," you say. "You are not alone."

He looks at you. He does not deny it. He knows you are right. He knows who is behind him. He knows what they want.

"They want you dead," he says. "They want the badge."

"I have given the badge," you say. "It is on the desk."

"That is not enough," he says. "They want you gone."

You turn to him. You look at him. You see the gun in his hand. It is small. It is black. It is quiet.

"You will not shoot me," you say.

He looks at the gun. He looks at you. His hand is shaking. He cannot stop it.

"I have to," he says. "I have to do it."

"No," you say. "You do not have to do it."

He raises the gun. His arm is stiff. His face is pale. He is crying. He is afraid. He is broken.

"Please," he says. "I have a family."

You do not move. You do not plead. You do not beg. You look at him. You see his pain. You see his fear. You see his mistake.

"You are not the enemy," you say. "You are the victim."

He lowers the gun. His hand trembles. The light flickers. The shadows move. The room is silent. The clock ticks.

"Why?" he asks. "Why did you do it?"

You do not answer. You look at the desk. You look at the badge. You think of the night. You think of the fire. You think of the child. You think of the choice.

"I did not do it for glory," you say. "I did it for silence."

He does not understand. He wants to understand. He wants to hate you. He wants to kill you. He cannot.

"Go," you say. "Go away."

He stands up. He picks up his hat. He picks up the lantern. He looks at you. He sees your face. He sees your eyes.

"I am sorry," he says.

You do not answer. You look at the door. You wait. He walks to the door. He opens it. The rain comes in. The cold comes in. He steps out. He closes the door. The lock clicks.

You are alone. You are not alone. The walls are listening. The shadows are watching. You walk to the chair. You sit down. Your hands are still. They do not shake.

The clock ticks. It is a heavy sound. It fills the room. The rain hits the tin roof. It sounds like static.

You think of the river. The water is cold. The water is dark. The water remembers. The water keeps. The water does not forgive. The water does not forget.

You think of the mill. The gears are rusted. The gears are broken. The gears are still. The smoke is gone. The fire is gone. The heat is gone.

You think of the child. The child is gone. The child is dead. The child is lost. The child is gone.

You look at your hands. They are old. They are rough. They are clean. They are empty.

You reach into your pocket. You take out the letter. You unfold it. You read it again. The words are clear. The ink is black. The paper is thin.

You see the name. It is your name. It is not your name. It is the name of the man who wrote it. It is the name of the man who sent it. It is the name of the man who is coming.

You fold the letter. You put it in your pocket. You stand up. You walk to the desk. You pick up the badge. It is cold. It is iron. It is heavy.

You look out the window. The rain is stopping. The clouds are moving. The moon is coming. The light is silver. The light is cold.

You see a figure in the yard. It is standing by the fence. It is still. It is waiting. It is you. It is not you. It is the man who died. It is the man who lived. It is the man who is coming.

You do not move. You do not run. You do not hide. You are here. You are ready. You are tired. You are old. You are done.

The figure moves. It walks to the door. It knocks. It is soft. It is polite. You do not move. The knocking comes again. It is firm. You stand up. Your knees crack. You are old. You are tired. You walk to the door. You open it.

The man stands there. He is not young. He is not old. He is you. He is the man you were. He is the man you will be. He holds a lantern. The light is yellow. It cuts through the rain. He looks at you. His eyes are wet. His face is pale.

"Mr. Hale," he says. His voice is low. It is rough. "We need to talk."